ut     .  r  ; 


I  E  - 


NEW  POEMS 


POEMS  BY  D.  H.  LAWRENCE 

LOVE  POEMS  AND  OTHERS 

AMORES 

LOOK!  WE  HAVE  COME  THROUGH! 

NEW  POEMS 


NEW  POEMS 


BY 

D.  H.  LAWRENCE 


NEW  YORK 
B.  W.  HUEBSCH 

INC. 

MCMXX 


COPYRIGHT,    1920 
BY  B.  W.    HUEBSCH 

INC. 


TO 
AMY  LOWELL 


Thanks  are  due  to  Poetry  for  permis- 
sion to  reprint  some  of  these  poems. 


PREFACE 

It  seems  when  we  hear  a  skylark  singing  as  if 
sound  were  running  forward  into  the  future,  running 
so  fast  and  utterly  without  consideration,  straight  on 
into  futurity.  And  when  we  hear  a  nightingale,  we 
hear  the  pause  and  the  rich,  piercing  rhythm  of  recol- 
lection, the  perfected  past.  The  lark  may  sound 
sad,  but  with  the  lovely  lapsing  sadness  that  is  almost 
a  swoon  of  hope.  The  nightingale's  triumph  is  a 
paean,  but  a  death-paean. 

So  it  is  with  poetry.  Poetry  is,  as  a  rule,  either 
the  voice  of  the  far  future,  exquisite  and  ethereal,  or 
it  is  the  voice  of  the  past,  rich,  magnificent.  When 
the  Greeks  heard  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey,  they 
heard  their  own  past  calling  in  their  hearts,  as  men 
far  inland  sometimes  hear  the  sea  and  fall  weak  with 
powerful,  wonderful  regret,  nostalgia;  or  else  their 
own  future  rippled  its  time-beats  through  their  blood, 
as  they  followed  the  painful,  glamorous  progress  of 
the  Ithacan.  This  was  Homer  to  the  Greeks :  their 
Past,  splendid  with  battles  won  and  death  achieved, 
and  their  Future,  the  magic  wandering  of  Ulysses 
through  the  unknown. 


PREFACE 

With  us  it  is  the  same.  Our  birds  sing  on  the 
horizons.  They  sing  out  of  the  blue,  beyond  us,  or 
out  of  the  quenched  night.  They  sing  at  dawn  and 
sunset.  Only  the  poor,  shrill,  tame  canaries  whistle 
while  we  talk.  The  wild  birds  begin  before  we  are 
awake,  or  as  we  drop  into  dimness,  out  of  waking. 
Our  poets  sit  by  the  gateways,  some  by  the  east, 
some  by  the  west.  As  we  arrive  and  as  we  go  out 
our  hearts  surge  with  response.  But  whilst  we  are 
in  the  midst  of  life,  we  do  not  hear  them. 

The  poetry  of  the  beginning  and  the  poetry  of  the 
end  must  have  that  exquisite  finality,  perfection  which 
belongs  to  all  that  is  far  off.  It  is  in  the  realm  of 
all  that  is  perfect.  It  is  of  the  nature  of  all  that  is 
complete  and  consummate.  This  completeness,  this 
consummateness,  the  finality  and  the  perfection  are 
conveyed  in  exquisite  form:  the  perfect  symmetry, 
the  rhythm  which  returns  upon  itself  like  a  dance 
where  the  hands  link  and  loosen  and  link  for  the 
supreme  moment  of  the  end.  Perfected  bygone  mo- 
ments, perfected  moments  in  the  glimmering  futurity, 
these  are  the  treasured  gem-like  lyrics  of  Shelley  and 
Keats. 

But  there  is  another  kind  of  poetry :  the  poetry  of 
that  which  is  at  hand:  the  immediate  present.  In 

[ii  1 


PREFACE 

the  immediate  present  there  is  no  perfection,  no  con- 
summation, nothing  finished.  The  strands  are  all 
flying,  quivering,  intermingling  into  the  web,  the 
waters  are  shaking  the  moon.  There  is  no  round, 
consummate  moon  on  the  face  of  running  water,  nor 
on  the  face  of  the  unfinished  tide.  There  are  no 
gems  of  the  living  plasm.  The  living  plasm  vibrates 
unspeakably,  it  inhales  the  future,  it  exhales  the  past, 
it  is  the  quick  of  both,  and  yet  it  is  neither.  There 
is  no  plasmic  finality,  nothing  crystal,  permanent.  If 
we  try  to  fix  the  living  tissue,  as  the  biologists  fix  it 
with  formation,  we  have  only  a  hardened  bit  of  the 
past,  the  bygone  life  under  our  observation. 

Life,  the  ever-present,  knows  no  finality,  no  fin- 
ished crystallisation.  The  perfect  rose  is  only  a 
running  flame,  emerging  and  flowing  off,  and  never 
in  any  sense  at  rest,  static,  finished.  Herein  lies  its 
transcendent  loveliness.  The  whole  tide  of  all  life 
and  all  time  suddenly  heaves,  and  appears  before  us 
as  an  apparition,  a  revelation.  We  look  at  the  very 
white  quick  of  nascent  creation.  A  water-lily  heaves 
herself  from  the  flood,  looks  round,  gleams,  and  is 
gone.  We  have  seen  the  incarnation,  the  quick  of 
the  ever-swirling  flood.  We  have  seen  the  invisible. 
We  have  seen,  we  have  touched,  we  have  partaken 


PREFACE 

of  the  very  substance  of  creative  change,  creative 
mutation.  If  you  tell  me  about  the  lotus,  tell  me  of 
nothing  changeless  or  eternal.  Tell  me  of  the  mys- 
tery of  the  inexhaustible,  forever-unfolding  creative 
spark.  Tell  me  of  the  incarnate  disclosure  of  the 
flux,  mutation  in  blossom,  laughter  and  decay  per- 
fectly open  in  their  transit,  nude  in  their  movement 
before  us. 

Let  me  feel  the  mud  and  the  heavens  in  my  lotus. 
Let  me  feel  the  heavy,  silting,  sucking  mud,  the  spin- 
ning of  sky  winds.  Let  me  feel  them  both  in  purest 
contact,  the  nakedness  of  sucking  weight,  nakedly 
passing  radiance.  Give  me  nothing  fixed,  set,  static. 
Don't  give  me  the  infinite  or  the  eternal :  nothing  of 
infinity,  nothing  of  eternity.  Give  me  the  still,  white 
seething,  the  incandescence  and  the  coldness  of  the 
incarnate  moment:  the  moment,  the  quick  of  all 
change  and  haste  and  opposition:  the  moment,  the 
immediate  present,  the  Now.  The  immediate  mo- 
ment is  not  a  drop  of  water  running  downstream.  It 
is  the  source  and  issue,  the  bubbling  up  of  the  stream. 
Here,  in  this  very  instant  moment,  up  bubbles  the 
stream  of  time,  out  of  the  wells  of  futurity,  flowing 
on  to  the  oceans  of  the  past.  The  source,  the  issue, 
the  creative  quick. 

[  iv] 


PREFACE 

There  is  poetry  of  this  immediate  present,  instant 
poetry,  as  well  as  poetry  of  the  infinite  past  and  the 
infinite  future.  The  seething  poetry  of  the  incarnate 
Now  is  supreme,  beyond  even  the  everlasting  gems 
of  the  before  and  after.  In  its  quivering  momen- 
taneity  it  surpasses  the  crystalline,  pearl-hard  jewels, 
the  poems  of  the  eternities.  Do  not  ask  for  the 
qualities  of  the  unfading  timeless  gems.  Ask  for 
the  whiteness  which  is  the  seethe  of  mud,  ask  for  that 
incipient  putrescence  which  is  the  skies  falling,  ask 
for  the  never-pausing,  never-ceasing  life  itself. 
There  must  be  mutation,  swifter  than  iridescence, 
haste,  not  rest,  come-and-go,  not  fixity,  inconclusive- 
ness,  immediacy,  the  quality  of  life  itself,  without 
denouement  or  close.  There  must  be  the  rapid 
momentaneous  association  of  things  which  meet  and 
pass  on  the  forever  incalculable  journey  of  creation: 
everything  left  in  its  own  rapid,  fluid  relationship 
with  the  rest  of  things. 

This  is  the  imrestful,  ungraspable  poetry  of  the 
sheer  present,  poetry  whose  very  permanency  lies  in 
its  wind-like  transit.  Whitman's  is  the  best  poetry 
of  this  kind.  Without  beginning  and  without  end, 
without  any  base  and  pediment,  it  sweeps  past  for- 
ever, like  a  wind  that  is  forever  in  passage,  and  un- 

[  v] 


PREFACE 

chainable.  Whitman  truly  looked  before  and  after. 
But  he  did  not  sigh  for  what  is  not.  The  clue  to  all 
his  utterance  lies  in  the  sheer  appreciation  of  the 
instant  moment,  life  surging  itself  into  utterance 
at  its  very  well-head.  Eternity  is  only  an  abstraction 
from  the  actual  present.  Infinity  is  only  a  great 
reservoir  of  recollection,  or  a  reservoir  of  aspira- 
tion: man-made.  The  quivering  nimble  hour  of  the 
present,  this  is  the  quick  of  Time.  This  is  the  imma- 
nence. The  quick  of  the  universe  is  the  pulsating, 
carnal  self,  mysterious  and  palpable.  So  it  is  al- 
ways. 

Because  Whitman  put  this  into  his  poetry,  we  fear 
him  and  respect  him  so  profoundly.  We  should  not 
fear  him  if  he  sang  only  of  the  "  old  unhappy  far-off 
things,"  or  of  the  "  wings  of  the  morning."  It  is 
because  his  heart  beats  with  the  urgent,  insurgent 
Now,  which  is  even  upon  us  all,  that  we  dread  him. 
He  is  so  near  the  quick. 

From  the  foregoing  it  is  obvious  that  the  poetry 
of  the  instant  present  cannot  have  the  same  body  or 
the  same  motion  as  the  poetry  of  the  before  and 
after.  It  can  never  submit  to  the  same  conditions. 
It  is  never  finished.  There  is  no  rhythm  which  re- 
turns upon  itself,  no  serpent  of  eternity  with  its  tail 

[  vi  ] 


PREFACE 

in  its  own  mouth.  There  is  no  static  perfection, 
none  of  that  finality  which  we  find  so  satisfying  be- 
cause we  are  so  frightened. 

Much  has  been  written  about  free  verse.  But  all 
that  can  be  said,  first  and  last,  is  that  free  verse  is, 
or  should  be  direct  utterance  from  the  instant,  whole 
man.  It  is  the  soul  and  the  mind  and  body  surging 
at  once,  nothing  left  out.  They  speak  all  together. 
There  is  some  confusion,  some  discord.  But  the  con- 
fusion and  the  discord  only  belong  to  the  reality,  as 
noise  belongs  to  the  plunge  of  water.  It  is  no  use 
inventing  fancy  laws  for  free  verse,  no  use  drawing 
a  melodic  line  which  all  the  feet  must  toe.  Free 
verse  toes  no  melodic  line,  no  matter  what  drill- 
sergeant.  Whitman  pruned  away  his  cliches  —  per- 
haps his  cliches  of  rhythm  as  well  as  of  phrase.  And 
this  is  about  all  we  can  do,  deliberately,  with  free 
verse.  We  can  get  rid  of  the  stereotyped  move- 
ments and  the  old  hackneyed  associations  of  sound  or 
sense.  We  can  break  down  those  artificial  conduits 
and  canals  through  which  we  do  so  love  to  force  our 
utterance.  We  can  break  the  stiff  neck  of  habit. 
We  can  be  in  ourselves  spontaneous  and  flexible  as 
flame,  we  can  see  that  utterance  rushes  out  without 
artificial  foam  or  artificial  smoothness.  "  But  we  can- 

[  vii  ] 


PREFACE 

not  positively  prescribe  any  motion,  any  rhythm. 
All  the  laws  we  invent  or  discover  —  it  amounts  to 
pretty  much  the  same  —  will  fail  to  apply  to  free 
verse.  They  will  only  apply  to  some  form  of  re- 
stricted, limited  unfree  verse. 

All  we  can  say  is  that  free  verse  does  not  have  the 
same  nature  as  restricted  verse.  It  is  not  of  the 
nature  of  reminiscence.  It  is  not  the  past  which  we 
treasure  in  its  perfection  between  our  hands. 
Neither  is  it  the  crystal  of  the  perfect  future,  into 
which  we  gaze.  Its  tide  is  neither  the  full,  yearn- 
ing flow  of  aspiration,  nor  the  sweet,  poignant  ebb 
of  (remembrance  and  regret.  The  past  and  the 
future  are  the  two  great  bournes  of  human  emotion, 
the  two  great  homes  of  the  human  days,  the  two 
eternities.  They  are  both  conclusive,  final.  Their 
beauty  is  the  beauty  of  the  goal,  finished,  perfected. 
Finished  beauty  and  measured  symmetry  belong  to 
the  stable,  unchanging  eternities. 

But  in  free  verse  we  look  for  the  insurgent  naked 
throb  of  the  instant  moment.  To  break  the  lovely 
form  of  metrical  verse,  and  to  dish  up  the  fragments 
as  a  new  substance,  called  vers  libre,  this  is  what 
most  of  the  free-versifiers  accomplish.  They  do  not 
know  that  free  verse  has  its  own  nature,  that  it  is 

[  viii  ] 


PREFACE 


neither  star  nor  pearl,  but  instantaneous  like  plasm. 
It  has  no  goal  in  either  eternity.  It  has  no  finish. 
It  has  no  satisfying  stability,  satisfying  to  those  who 
like  the  immutable.  None  of  this.  It  is  the  instant; 
the  quick;  the  very  jetting  source  of  all  will-be  and 
has-been.  The  utterance  is  like  a  spasm,  naked  con- 
tact with  all  influences  at  once.  It  does  not  want  to 
get  anywhere.  It  just  takes  place. 

For  such  utterance  any  externally-applied  law 
would  be  mere  shackles  and  death.  The  law  must 
come  new  each  time  from  within.  The  bird  is  on  the 
wing  in  the  winds,  flexible  to  every  breath,  a  living 
spark  in  the  storm,  its  very  flickering  depending  upon 
its  supreme  mutability  and  power  of  change. 
Whence  such  a  bird  came:  whither  it  goes:  from 
what  solid  earth  it  rose  up,  and  upon  what  solid 
earth  it  will  close  its  wings  and  settle,  this  is  not  the 
question.  This  is  a  question  of  before  and  after. 
Now,  now,  the  bird  is  on  the  wing  in  the  winds. 

Such  is  the  rare  new  poetry.  One  realm  we  have 
never  conquered :  the  pure  present.  One  great  mys- 
tery of  time  is  terra  incognita  to  us:  the  instant. 
The  most  superb  mystery  we  have  hardly  recog- 
nized: the  immediate,  instant  self.  The  quick  of  all 
time  is  the  instant.  The  quick  of  all  the  universe,  of 

[  ix] 


PREFACE 

all  creation,  is  the  incarnate,  carnal  self.  Poetry 
gave  us  the  clue:  free  verse:  Whitman.  Now  we 
know. 

The  ideal  —  what  is  the  ideal?  A  figment.  An 
abstraction.  A  static  abstraction,  abstracted  from 
life.  It  is  a  fragment  of  the  before  or  the  after. 
It  is  a  crystallised  aspiration,  or  a  crystallised  re- 
membrance :  crystallised,  set,  finished.  It  is  a  thing 
set  apart,  in  the  great  storehouse  of  eternity,  the 
storehouse  of  finished  things. 

We  do  not  speak  of  things  crystallised  and  set 
apart.  We  speak  of  the  instant,  the  immediate  self, 
the  very  plasm  of  the  self.  We  speak  also  of  free 
verse. 

All  this  should  have  come  as  a  preface  to  "  Look ! 
We  have  Come  Through."  But  is  it  not  better  to 
publish  a  preface  long  after  the  book  it  belongs  to 
has  appeared?  For  then  the  reader  will  have  had 
his  fair  chance  with  the  book,  alone. 

D.  H.  LAWRENCE. 

Pangbourne,   1919. 


CONTENTS 

Preface,  i 

Apprehension,   I 

Coming  Awake,  2 

From  a  College  Window,  3 

Flapper,  4 

Birdcage  Walk,  5 

Letter  from  Town :  The  Almond  Tree,  6 

Flat  Suburbs,  S.W.,  in  the  Morning,  8 

Thief  in  the  Night,  9 

Letter  from  Town:  On  a  Grey  Evening  in  March,  10 

Suburbs  on  a  Hazy  Day,  12 

Hyde  Park  at  Night:  Clerks,  13 

Gipsy,  15 

Two-Fold,  1 6 

Under  the  Oak,  17 

Sigh  no  More,  19 

Love  Storm,  21 

Parliament  Hill  in  the  Evening,  23 

Piccadilly  Circus  at  Night:  Street  Walkers,  24 

Tarantella,  26 

In  Church,  28 

Piano,  29 


CONTENTS 

Embankment  at  Night :  Charity,  30 

Phantasmagoria,  32 

Next  Morning,  34 

Palimpsest  of  Twilight,  36 

Embankment  at  Night:  Outcasts,  37 

Winter  in  the  Boulevard,  42 

School  on  the  Outskirts,  44 

Sickness,  45 

Everlasting  Flowers,  47 

The  North  Country,  50 

Bitterness  of  Death,  52 

Seven  Seals,  56 

Reading  a  Letter,  59 

Twenty  Years  Ago,  61 

Intime,  62 

Two  Wives,  65 

Heimweh,  70 

Debacle,  71 

Narcissus,  73 

Autumn  Sunshine,  75 

On  That  Day,  77 


APPREHENSION 

AND  all  hours  long,  the  town 
Roars  like  a  beast  in  a  cave 

That  is  wounded  there 

And  like  to  drown ; 

While  days  rush,  wave  after  wave 

On  its  lair. 

An  invisible  woe  unseals 

The  flood,  so  it  passes  beyond 

All  bounds:  the  great  old  city 

Recumbent  roars  as  it  feels 
The  foamy  paw  of  the  pond 

Reach  from  immensity. 

But  all  that  it  can  do 

Now,  as  the  tide  rises, 
Is  to  listen  and  hear  the  grim 
Waves  crash  like  thunder  through 

The  splintered  streets,  hear  noises 
Roll  hollow  in  the  interim. 


COMING  AWAKE 

WHEN  I  woke,  the  lake-lights  were  quivering  on  the 

wall, 

The  sunshine  swam  in  a  shoal  across  and  across, 
And  a  hairy,  big  bee  hung  over  the  primulas 
In  the  window,  his  body  black  fur,  and  the  sound 
of  him  cross. 

There  was  something  I  ought  to  remember :  and  yet 
I  did  not  remember.     Why  should  I  ?     The  run- 
ning lights 
And  the  airy  primulas,  oblivious 

Of  the  impending  bee  —  they  were  fair  enough 
sights. 


[2] 


FROM  A  COLLEGE  WINDOW 

THE  glimmer  of  the  limes,  sun-heavy,  sleeping, 
Goes  trembling  past  me  up  the  College  wall. 

Below,  the  lawn,  in  soft  blue  shade  is  keeping 
The  daisy-froth  quiescent,  softly  in  thrall. 

Beyond  the  leaves  that  overhang  the  street, 

Along  the  flagged,  clean  pavement  summer-white, 

'Passes  the  world  with  shadows  at  their  feet 
Going  left  and  right. 

Remote,  although  I  hear  the  beggar's  cough, 

See  the  woman's  twinkling  fingers  tend  him  a  coin, 

I  sit  absolved,  assured  I  am  better  off 
Beyond  a  world  I  never  want  to  join. 


[si 


FLAPPER 

LOVE  has  crept  out  of  her  sealed  heart 
As  a  field-bee,  black  and  amber, 
Breaks  from  the  winter-cell,  to  clamber 

Up  the  warm  grass  where  the  sunbeams  start. 

'Mischief  has  come  in  her  dawning  eyes, 
And  a  glint  of  coloured  iris  brings 
Such  as  lies  along  the  folded  wings 

Of  the  bee  before  he  flies. 

Who,  with  a  ruffling,  careful  breath 

Has  opened  the  wings  of  the  wild  young  sprite? 

Has  fluttered  her  spirit  to  stumbling  flight 
In  her  eyes,  as  a  young  bee  stumbleth? 

Love  makes  the  burden  of  her  voice. 
The  hum  of  his  heavy,  staggering  wings 
Sets  quivering  with  wisdom  the  common  things 

That  she  says,  and  her  words  rejoice. 


[4] 


BIRDCAGE  WALK 

WHEN  the  wind  blows  her  veil 
And  uncovers  her  laughter 

I  cease,  I  turn  pale. 

When  the  wind  blows  her  veil 

From  the  woes  I  bewail 
Of  love  and  hereafter: 

When  the  wind  blows  her  veil 

I  cease,  I  turn  pale. 


[5  I 


LETTER  FROM  TOWN:     THE 
ALMOND  TREE 

,You  promised  to  send  me  some  violets.     Did  you 

forget? 
White  ones  and  blue  ones  from  under  the  orchard 

hedge  ? 
Sweet  dark  purple,  and  white  ones  mixed  for  a 

pledge 
Of  our  early  love  that  hardly  has  opened  yet. 

Here  there's  an  almond  tree  —  you  have  never  seen 
Such  a  one  in  the  north  —  it  flowers  on  the  street, 

and  I  stand 
Every  day  by  the  fence  to  look  up  for  the  flowers 

that  expand 
At  rest  in  the  blue,  and  wonder  at  what  they  mean. 

Under  the  almond  tree,  the  happy  lands 
Provence,  Japan,  and  Italy  repose, 
And  passing  feet  are  chatter  and  clapping  of  those 
Who  play  around  us,  country  girls  clapping  their 
hands. 

[6] 


LETTER  FROM  TOWN 

You,  my  love,  the  foremost,  in  a  flowered  gown, 
All   your   unbearable   tenderness,   you   with   the 

laughter 

Startled  upon  your  eyes  now  so  wide  with  here- 
after, 
You  with  loose  hands  of  abandonment  hanging  down. 


[  7  ] 


FLAT  SUBURBS,  S.W.,  IN  THE 
MORNING 

THE  new  red  houses  spring  like  plants 

In  level  rows 
Of  reddish  herbage  that  bristles  and  slants 

Its  square  shadows. 

The  pink  young  houses  show  one  side  bright 

Flatly  assuming  the  sun, 
And  one  side  shadow,  half  in  sight, 

Half-hiding  the  pavement-run; 

Where  hastening  creatures  pass  intent 

On  their  level  way, 
Threading  like  ants  that  can  never  relent 

And  have  nothing  to  say. 

Bare  stems  of  street-lamps  stiffly  stand 

At  random,  desolate  twigs, 
To  testify  to  a  blight  on  the  land 

That  has  stripped  their  sprigs. 

[  8  ] 


THIEF  IN  THE  NIGHT 

LAST  night  a  thief  came  to  me 

And  struck  at  me  with  something  dark. 
I  cried,  but  no  one  could  hear  me, 

I  lay  dumb  and  stark. 

When  I  awoke  this  morning 

I  could  find  no  trace ; 
Perhaps  'twas  a  dream  of  warning, 

For  I've  lost  my  peace. 


[9] 


LETTER  FROM  TOWN:    ON  A  GREY 

EVENING  IN  MARCH 

/ 

THE  clouds  are  pushing  in  grey  reluctance  slowly 

northward  to  you, 
While  north  of  them  all,  at  the  farthest  ends, 

stands  one  bright-bosomed,  aglance 
With  fire  as  it  guards  the  wild  north  cloud-coasts, 

red-fire  seas  running  through 
The  rocks  where  ravens  flying  to  windward  melt 
as  a  well-shot  lance. 

You  should  be  out  by  the  orchard,  where  violets 

secretly  darken  the  earth, 

Or  there  in  the  woods  of  the  twilight,  with  north- 
ern wind-flowers  shaken  astir. 
Think  of  me  here  in  the  library,  trying  and  trying  a 

song  that  is  worth 

Tears  and  swords  to  my  heart,  arrows  no  armour 
will  turn  or  deter. 

You  tell  me  the  lambs  have  come,  they  lie  like  daisies 

white  in  the  grass 

Of  the  dark-green  hills;  new  calves  in  shed;  pee- 
wits turn  after  the  plough  — 
[  10  ] 


LETTER  FROM  TOWN 

It  is  well  for  you.     For  me  the  navvies  work  in  the 

road  where  I  pass 

And  I  want  to  smite  in  anger  the  barren  rock  of 
each  waterless  brow. 

Like  the  sough  of  a  wind  that  is  caught  up  high  in  the 

mesh  of  the  budding  trees, 
A  sudden  car  goes  sweeping  past,  and  I  strain  my> 

soul  to  hear 
The  voice  of  the  furtive  triumphant  engine  as  it 

rushes  past  like  a  breeze, 

To  hear  on  its  mocking  triumphance  unwitting  the 
after-echo  of  fear. 


SUBURBS  ON  A  HAZY  DAY 

O  STIFFLY  shapen  houses  that  change  not, 

What  conjuror's  cloth  was  thrown  across  you,  and 
raised 

To  show  you  thus  transfigured,  changed, 

Your  stuff  all  gone,  your  menace  almost  rased? 

Such  resolute  shapes,  so  harshly  set 

In  hollow  blocks  and  cubes  deformed,  and  heaped 
In  void  and  null  profusion,  how  is  this? 

In  what  strong  aqua  regia  now  are  you  steeped? 

That  you  lose  the  brick-stuff  out  of  you 

And  hover  like  a  presentment,  fading  faint 

And  vanquished,  evaporate  away 

To  leave  but  only  the  merest  possible  taint ! 


HYDE  PARK  AT  NIGHT,  BEFORE 
THE  WAR 

Clerks 

WE  have  shut  the  doors  behind  us,  and  the  velvet 

flowers  of  night 
Lean   about  us   scattering  their  pollen   grains   of 

golden  light. 

Now  at  last  we  lift  our  faces,  and  our  faces  come 

aflower 
To  the  night  that  takes  us  willing,  liberates  us  to  the 

hour. 

Now  at  last  the  ink  and  dudgeon  passes  from  our 

fervent  eyes 
And  out  of  the  chambered  weariness  wanders  a  spirit 

abroad  on  its  enterprise. 

Not  too  near  and  not  too  far 
Out  of  the  stress  of  the  crowd 
Music  screams  as  elephants  scream 
When  they  lift  their  trunks  and  scream  aloud 
[  13  ] 


HYDE  PARK  AT  NIGHT 

For  joy  of  the  night  when  masters  are 
Asleep  and  adream. 

So  here  I  hide  in  the  Shalimar 
With  a  wanton  princess  slender  and  proud, 
And  we  swoon  with  kisses,  swoon  till  we  seem 
Two  streaming  peacocks  gone  in  a  cloud 
Of  golden  dust,  with  star  after  star 
On  our  stream. 


GIPSY 

I,  the  man  with  the  red  scarf, 

Will  give   thee  what  I   have,   this  last  week's 

earnings. 
Take  them,  and  buy  thee  a  silver  ring 

And  wed  me,  to  ease  my  yearnings. 

For  the  rest,  when  thou  art  wedded 

I'll  wet  my  brow  for  thee 
With  sweat,  I'll  enter  a  house  for  thy  sake, 

Thou  shalt  shut  doors  on  me. 


TWO-FOLD 

How  gorgeous  that  shock  of  red  lilies,  and  larkspur 
cleaving 

All  with  a  flash  of  blue !  —  when  will  she  be  leaving 

Her  room,  where  the  night  still  hangs  like  a  half- 
folded  bat, 

And  passion  unbearable  seethes  in  the  darkness,  like 
must  in  a  vat. 


[  16  ] 


UNDER  THE  OAK 

You,  if  you  were  sensible, 

When  I  tell  you  the  stars  flash  signals,  each  one 

dreadful, 

You  would  not  turn  and  answer  me 
"  The  night  is  wonderful." 

Even  you,  if  you  knew 

How  this  darkness  soaks  me  through  and  through, 
and  infuses 

Unholy  fear  in  my  vapour,  you  would  pause  to  dis- 
tinguish 

What  hurts,  from  what  amuses. 

For  I  tell  you 

Beneath  this  powerful  tree,  my  whole  soul's  fluid 

Oozes  away  from  me  as  a  sacrifice  steam 

At  the  knife  of  a  Druid. 

Again  I  tell  you,  I  bleed,  I  am  bound  with  withies, 
My  life  runs  out. 

I  tell  you  my  blood  runs  out  on  the  floor  of  this  oak, 
Gout  upon  gout. 

[  17  1 


UNDER  THE  OAK 

Above  me  springs  the  blood-born  mistletoe 
In  the  shady  smoke. 
But  who  are  you,  twittering  to  and  fro 
Beneath  the  oak? 

What  thing  better  are  you,  what  worse  ? 
What  have  you  to  do  with  the  mysteries 
Of  this  ancient  place,  of  my  ancient  curse? 
What  place  have  you  in  my  histories? 


[  18] 


SIGH  NO  MORE 

THE  cuckoo  and  the  coo-dove's  ceaseless  calling, 

Calling 

Of  a  meaningless  monotony  is  palling 
All  my  morning's  pleasure  in  the  sun-fleck-scattered 
wood. 

May-blossom  and  blue  bird's-eye  flowers  falling, 

Falling 

In  a  litter  through  the  elm-tree  shade  are  scrawling 
Messages  of  true-love  down  the  dust  of  the  high- 
road. 

I  do  not  like  to  hear  the  gentle  grieving, 

Grieving 

Of  the  she-dove  in  the  blossom,  still  believing 
Love  will  yet  again  return  to  her  and  make  all  good. 

When  I  know  that  there  must  ever  be  deceiving, 

Deceiving 
Of  the  mournful  constant  heart,  that  while  she's 

weaving 
Her  woes,  her  lover  woos  and  sings  within  another 

wood. 


SIGH  NO  MORE 

Oh,  boisterous  the  cuckoo  shouts,  forestalling, 

Stalling 

A  progress  down  the  intricate  enthralling 
By-paths    where    the    wanton-headed    flowers    doff 
their  hood. 

And  like  a  laugher  leads  me  onward,  heaving, 

Heaving 

A  sigh  among  the  shadows,  thus  retrieving 
A  decent  short  regret,  for  that  which  once  was  very 
good. 


[20] 


LOVE  STORM 

MANY  roses  in  the  wind 
Are  tapping  at  the  window-sash. 
A  hawk  is  in  the  sky;  his  wings 
Slowly  begin  to  plash. 

The  roses  with  the  west  wind  rapping 

Are  torn  away,  and  a  splash 

Of  red  goes  down  the  billowing  air. 

Still  hangs  the  hawk,  with  the  whole  sky  moving 
Past  him  —  only  a  wing-beat  proving 
The  will  that  holds  him  there. 

The  daisies  in  the  grass  are  bending, 

The  hawk  has  dropped,  the  wind  is  spending 

All  the  roses,  and  unending 

Rustle  of  leaves  washes  out  the  rending 

Cry  of  a  bird. 

A  red  rose  goes  on  the  wind. —  Ascending 
The  hawk  his  wind-swept  way  is  wending 
[  21  ] 


LOVE  STORM 

Easily  down  the  sky.     The  daisies,  sending 

Strange  white  signals,  seem  intending 

To  show  the  place  whence  the  scream  was  heard. 

But,  oh,  my  heart,  what  birds  are  piping! 
A  silver  wind  is  hastily  wiping 
The  face  of  the  youngest  rose. 

And  oh,  my  heart,  cease  apprehending ! 
The  hawk  is  gone,  a  rose  is  tapping 
The  window-sash  as  the  west-wind  blows. 

Knock,  knock,  'tis  no  more  than  a  red  rose  rapping, 
And  fear  is  a  plash  of  wings. 
What,  then,  if  a  scarlet  rose  goes  flapping 
Down  the  bright-grey  ruin  of  things ! 


[22    ] 


PARLIAMENT  HILL  IN  THE  EVENING 

THE  houses  fade  in  a  melt  of  mist 
Blotching  the  thick,  soiled  air 

With  reddish  places  that  still  resist 
The  Night's  slow  care. 

The  hopeless,  wintry  twilight  fades, 
The  city  corrodes  out  of  sight 

As  the  body  corrodes  when  death  invades 
That  citadel  of  delight. 

Now  verdigris  smoulderings  softly  spread 
Through  the  shroud  of  the  town,  as  slow 

Night-lights  hither  and  thither  shed 
Their  ghastly  glow. 


[23  ] 


PICCADILLY  CIRCUS  AT  NIGHT 

Street-Walkers 

WHEN  into  the  night  the  yellow  light  is  roused  like 

dust  above  the  towns, 
Or  like  a  mist  the  moon  has  kissed  from  off  a  pool  in 

the  midst  of  the  downs, 

Our  faces  flower  for  a  little  hour  pale  and  uncertain 
along  the  street, 

Daisies  that  waken  all  mistaken  white-spread  in  ex- 
pectancy to  meet 

The  luminous  mist  which  the  poor  things  wist  was 

dawn  arriving  across  the  sky, 
When  dawn  is  far  behind  the  star  the  dust-lit  town 

has  driven  so  high. 

All  the  birds  are  folded  in  a  silent  ball  of  sleep, 
All  the  flowers  are  faded  from  the  asphalt  isle  in 
the  sea, 

[24] 


PICCADILLY  CIRCUS  AT  NIGHT 

Only  we  fard-faced  creatures  go  round  and  round, 

and  keep 

The  shores  of  this  innermost  ocean  alive  and  illu- 
sory. 

Wanton    sparrows   that   twittered   when   morning 

looked  in  at  their  eyes 
And  the  Cyprian's  pavement-roses  are  gone,  and 

now  it  is  we 
Flowers  of  illusion  who  shine  in  our  gauds,  make  a 

Paradise 

On  the  shores  of  this  ceaseless  ocean,  gay  birds  of 
the  town-dark  sea. 


TARANTELLA 

SAD  he  sits  on  the  white  sea-stone 

And  the  suave  sea  chuckles,  and  turns  to  the  moon, 

And  the  moon  significant  smiles  at  the  cliffs  and  the 

boulders. 

He  sits  like  a  shade  by  the  flood  alone 
While  I  dance  a  tarantella  on  the  rocks,  and  the 

croon 
Of  my  mockery  mocks  at  him  over  the  waves'  bright 

shoulders. 

What  can  I  do  but  dance  alone, 

Dance  to  the  sliding  sea  and  the  moon, 

For  the  moon  on  my  breast  and  the  air  on  my  limbs 

and  the  foam  on  my  feet? 
For  surely  this  earnest  man  has  none 
Of  the  night  in  his  soul,  and  none  of  the  tune 
Of  the  waters  within  him;  only  the  world's  old  wis- 
dom to  bleat. 

I  wish  a  wild  sea-fellow  would  come  down  the  glit- 
tering shingle, 

A  soulless  neckar,  with  winking  seas  in  his  eyes 

[  26  ] 


TARANTELLA 

And  falling  waves  in  his  arms,  and  the  lost  soul's  kiss 

On  his  lips :  I  long  to  be  soulless,  I  tingle 

To  touch  the  sea  in  the  last  surprise 

Of  fiery  coldness,  to  be  gone  in  a  lost  soul's  bliss. 


[27] 


IN  CHURCH 

IN  the  choir  the  boys  are  singing  the  hymn. 

The  morning  light  on  their  lips 
Moves  in  silver-moist  flashes,  in  musical  trim. 

Sudden  outside  the  high  window,  one  crow 

Hangs  in  the  air 
And  lights  on  a  withered  oak-tree's  top  of  woe. 

One  bird,  one  blot,  folded  and  still  at  the  top 
Of  the  withered  tree !  —  in  the  grail 
Of  crystal  heaven  falls  one  full  black  drop. 

Like  a  soft  full  drop  of  dark  it  seems  to  sway 

In  the  tender  wine 
Of  our  Sabbath,  suffusing  our  sacred  day. 


U  *8  I 


PIANO 

SOFTLY,  in  the  dusk,  a  woman  is  singing  to  me ; 
Taking  me  back  down  the  vista  of  years,  till  I  see 
A  child  sitting  under  the  piano,  in  the  boom  of  the 

tingling  strings 
And  pressing  the  small,  poised  feet  of  a  mother  who 

smiles  as  she  sings. 

In  spite  of  myself,  the  insidious  mastery  of  song 
Betrays  me  back,  till  the  heart  of  me  weeps  to  belong 
To  the  old  Sunday  evenings  at  home,  with  winter 

outside 
And  hymns  in  the  cosy  parlour,  the  tinkling  piano 

our  guide. 

So  now  it  is  vain  for  the  singer  to  burst  into  clamour 
With   the    great   black   piano    appassionato.     The 

glamour 

Of  childish  days  is  upon  me,  my  manhood  is  cast 
Down  in  the  flood  of  remembrance,  I  weep  like  a 

child  for  the  past. 

[  29] 


EMBANKMENT  AT  NIGHT, 
BEFORE  THE  WAR 

Charity 
BY  the  river 

In  the  black  wet  night  as  the  furtive  rain  slinks  down, 
Dropping  and  starting  from  sleep 
Alone  on  a  seat 
A  woman  crouches. 

I  must  go  back  to  her. 

I  want  to  give  her 

Some  money.     Her  hand  slips  out  of  the  breast  of 

her  gown 

Asleep.     My  fingers  creep 
Carefully  over  the  sweet 
Thumb-mound,  into  the  palm's  deep  pouches. 

So,  the  gift! 

God,  how  she  starts! 

And  looks  at  me,  and  looks  in  the  palm  of  her  hand ! 

[  30  ] 


EMBANKMENT  AT  NIGHT 

And  again  at  me! 

I  turn  and  run 

Down  the  Embankment,  run  for  my  life. 

But  why?  —  why? 

Because  of  my  heart's 

Beating  like  sobs,  I  come  to  myself,  and  stand 

In  the  street  spilled  over  splendidly 

With  wet,  flat  lights.     What  I've  done 

I  know  not,  my  soul  is  in  strife. 

The  touch  was  on  the  quick.     I  want  to  forget. 


[31 


PHANTASMAGORIA 

RIGID  sleeps  the  house  in  darkness,  I  alone 
Like  a  thing  unwarrantable  cross  the  hall 
And  climb  the  stairs  to  find  the  group  of  doors 
Standing  angel-stern  and  tall. 


I  want  my  own  room's  shelter.     But  what  is  this 
Throng  of  startled  beings  suddenly  thrown 
In  confusion  against  my  entry?     Is  it  only  the  trees' 
Large  shadows  from  the  outside  street  lamp  blown? 


Phantom  to  phantom  leaning;  strange  women  weep 
Aloud,  suddenly  on  my  mind 

Starting  a  fear  unspeakable,  as  the  shuddering  wind 
Breaks  and  sobs  in  the  blind. 


So  like  to  women,  tall  strange  women  weeping ! 
Why  continually  do  they  cross  the  bed? 
Why  does  my  soul  contract  with  unnatural  fear? 
I  am  listening!     Is  anything  said? 

[  32  ] 


PHANTASMAGORIA 

Ever  the  long  black  figures  swoop  by  the  bed; 
They  seem  to  be  beckoning,  rushing  away,  and  beck- 
oning. 

Whither  then,  whither,  what  is  it,  say 
What  is  the  reckoning? 

Tall  black  Bacchae  of  midnight,  why  then,  why 
Do  you  rush  to  assail  me  ? 
Do  I  intrude  on  your  rites  nocturnal? 
What  should  it  avail  me  ? 

Is  there  some  great  lacchos  of  these  slopes 
Suburban  dismal? 

Have  I  profaned  some  female  mystery,  orgies 
Black  and  phantasmal? 


[  33  ] 


NEXT  MORNING 

How  have  I  wandered  here  to  this  vaulted  room 
In  the  house  of  life?  —  the  floor  was  ruffled  with 

gold 

Last  evening,  and  she  who  was  softly  in  bloom, 
Glimmered  as  flowers  that  in  perfume  at  twilight 

unfold 

For  the  flush  of  the  night;  whereas  now  the  gloom 
Of  every  dirty,  must-besprinkled  mould, 
And  damp  old  web  of  misery's  heirloom 
Deadens  this  day's  grey-dropping  arras-fold. 

And  what  is  this  that  floats  on  the  undermist 

Of  the  mirror  towards  the  dusty  grate,  as  if  feeling 

Unsightly  its  way  to  the  warmth  ?  —  this  thing  with 

a  list 
To  the  left? — -this  ghost  like  a  candle  sweating? 

Pale-blurred,  with  two  round  black  drops,  as  if  it 

missed 

Itself  among  everything  else,  here  hungrily  stealing 

[  34] 


NEXT  MORNING 

Upon  me !  —  my  own  reflection !  —  explicit  gist 
Of  my  presence  there  in  the  mirror  that  leans  from 
the  ceiling! 

Then  will  somebody  square  this  shade  with  the  being 

I  know 

I  was  last  night,  when  my  soul  rang  clear  as  a  bell 
And  happy  as  rain  in  summer?     Why  should  it  be 

so? 
What  is  there  gone  against  me,  why  am  I  in  hell  ? 


[35  ] 


PALIMPSEST  OF  TWILIGHT 

DARKNESS  comes  out  of  the  earth 

And  swallows  dip  into  the  pallor  of  the  west; 

From  the  hay  comes  the  clamour  of  children's  mirth; 
Wanes  the  old  palimpsest. 

The  night-stock  oozes  scent, 

And  a  moon-blue  moth  goes  flittering  by : 
All  that  the  worldly  day  has  meant 

Wastes  like  a  lie. 

The  children  have  forsaken  their  play; 

A  single  star  in  a  veil  of  light 
Glimmers:  litter  of  day 

Is  gone  from  sight. 


r  36 


EMBANKMENT  AT  NIGHT,   BEFORE 
THE  WAR 

Outcasts 

THE  night  rain,  dripping  unseen, 

Comes  endlessly  kissing  my  face  and  my  hands. 

The  river,  slipping  between 
Lamps,  is  rayed  with  golden  bands 
Half  way  down  its  heaving  sides; 
Revealed  where  it  hides. 

Under  the  bridge 

Great  electric  cars 

Sing  through,  and  each  with  a  floor-light  racing  along 

at  its  side. 

Far  off,  oh,  midge  after  midge 
Drifts  over  the  gulf  that  bars 
The  night  with  silence,  crossing  the  lamp-touched 

tide. 

At  Charing  Cross,  here,  beneath  the  bridge 
Sleep  in  a  row  the  outcasts, 

[  37  ] 


EMBANKMENT  AT  NIGHT 

Packed  in  line  with  their  heads  against  the  wall. 

Their  feet,  in  a  broken  ridge 

Stretch  out  on  the  way,  and  a  lout  casts 

A  look  as  he  stands  on  the  edge  of  this  naked  stall. 

Beasts  that  sleep  will  cover 
Their  face  in  their  flank;  so  these 
Have  huddled  rags  or  limbs  on  the  naked  sleep. 
Save,  as  the  tram-cars  hover 
Past  with  the  noise  of  a  breeze 
And  gleam  as  of  sunshine  crossing  the  low  black 
heap, 

Two  naked  faces  are  seen 

Bare  and  asleep, 

Two  pale  clots  swept  and  swept  by  the  light  of  the 

cars. 

Foam-clots  showing  between 
The  long,  low  tidal-heap, 
The  mud-weed  opening  two  pale,  shadowless  stars. 

Over  the  pallor  of  only  two  faces 
Passes  the  gallivant  beam  of  the  trams; 
Shows  in  only  two  sad  places 
The  white  bare  bone  of  our  shams. 

[  38  ] 


EMBANKMENT  AT  NIGHT 

A  little,  bearded  man,  pale,  peaked  in  sleeping, 
With  a  face  like  a  chickweed  flower. 
And  a  heavy  woman,  sleeping  still  keeping 
Callous  and  dour. 


Over  the  pallor  of  only  two  places 
Tossed  on  the  low,  black,  ruffled  heap 
Passes  the  light  of  the  tram  as  it  races 
Out  of  the  deep. 

Eloquent  limbs 

In  disarray 

Sleep-suave  limbs  of  a  youth  with  long,  smooth  thighs 

Hutched  up  for  warmth;  the  muddy  rims 

Of  trousers  fray 

On  the  thin  bare  shins  of  a  man  who  uneasily  lies. 

The  balls  of  five  red  toes 
As  red  and  dirty,  bare 

Young  birds  forsaken  and  left  in  a  nest  of  mud  — > 
Newspaper  sheets  enclose 
Some  limbs  like  parcels,  and  tear 
When  the  sleeper  stirs  or  turns  on  the  ebb  of  the 
flood  — 

[39] 


EMBANKMENT  AT  NIGHT 

One  heaped  mound 
Of  a  woman's  knees 

As  she  thrusts  them  upward  under  the  ruffled  skirt  — 
And  a  curious  dearth  of  sound 
In  the  presence  of  these 

Wastrels  that  sleep  on  the  flagstones  without  any 
hurt. 

Over  two  shadowless,  shameless  faces 
Stark  on  the  heap 

Travels  the  light  as  it  tilts  in  its  paces 
Gone  in  one  leap. 

At  the  feet  of  the  sleepers,  watching, 

Stand  those  that  wait 

For  a  place  to  lie  down;  and  still  as  they  stand,  they 

sleep, 

Wearily  catching 
The  flood's  slow  gait 
Like  men  who  are  drowned,  but  float  erect  in  the 

deep. 

Oh,  the  singing  mansions, 
Golden-lighted  tall 

Trams  that  pass,  blown  ruddily  down  the  night ! 
The  bridge  on  its  stanchions 

[  40  ] 


EMBANKMENT  AT  NIGHT 

Stoops  like  a  pall 

To   this   human   blight. 

On  the  outer  pavement,  slowly, 

Theatre  people  pass, 

Holding  aloft  their  umbrellas  that  flash  and  are 

bright 

Like  flowers  of  infernal  moly 
Over  nocturnal  grass 
Wetly  bobbing  and  drifting  away  on  our  sight. 

And  still  by  the  rotten 

Row  of  shattered  feet, 

Outcasts  keep  guard. 

Forgotten, 

Forgetting,  till  fate  shall  delete 

One  from  the  ward. 

The  factories  on  the  Surrey  side 

Are  beautifully  laid  in  black  on  a  gold-grey  sky. 

The  river's  invisible  tide 

Threads  and  thrills  like  ore  that  is  wealth  to  the  eye. 

And  great  gold  midges 

Cross  the  chasm 

At  the  bridges 

Above  intertwined  plasm. 


WINTER  IN  THE  BOULEVARD 

THE  frost  has  settled  down  upon  the  trees 
And  ruthlessly  strangled  off  the  fantasies 
Of  leaves  that  have  gone  unnoticed,  swept  like  old 
Romantk  stories  now  no  more  to  be  told. 


The    trees    down    the    boulevard    stand    naked   in 

thought, 

Their  abundant  summery  wordage  silenced,  caught 
In  the  grim  undertow ;  naked  the  trees  confront 
Implacable  winter's  long,  cross-questioning  brunt. 

Has  some  hand  balanced  more  leaves  in  the  depths 

of  the  twigs? 
Some  dim  little  efforts  placed  in  the  threads  of  the 

birch?  — 
It  is  only  the  sparrows,  like  dead  black  leaves  on  the 

sprigs, 
Sitting  huddled  against  the  cerulean,  one  flesh  with 

their  perch. 

[  42  ] 


WINTER  IN  THE  BOULEVARD 

The  clear,  cold  sky  coldly  bethinks  itself. 
Like  vivid  thought  the  air  spins  bright,  and  all 
Trees,  birds,  and  earth,  arrested  in  the  after-thought 
Awaiting  the  sentence  out  from  the  welkin  brought. 


[43] 


SCHOOL  ON  THE  OUTSKIRTS 

How  different,  in  the  middle  of  snows,  the  great 

school  rises  red! 
A  red  rock  silent  and  shadowless,  clung  round  with 

clusters  of  shouting  lads, 
Some  few  dark-cleaving  the  doorway,  souls  that  cling 

as  the  souls  of  the  dead 

In  stupor  persist  at  the  gates  of  life,  obstinate  dark 
monads. 

This  new  red  rock  in  a  waste  of  white  rises  against 

the  day 
With  shelter  now,  and  with  blandishment,  since  the 

winds  have  had  their  way 
And  laid  the  desert  horrific  of  silence  and  snow  on 

the  world  of  mankind, 
School  now  is  the  rock  in  this  weary  land  the  winter 

burns  and  makes  blind. 


[44] 


SICKNESS 

WAVING  slowly  before  me,  pushed  into  the  dark, 
Unseen  my  hands  explore  the  silence,  drawing  the 

bark 
Of  my  body  slowly  behind. 

Nothing  to  meet  my  fingers  but  the  fleece  of  night 
Invisible  blinding  my  face  and  my  eyes !     What  if  in 

their  flight 
My  hands  should  touch  the  door ! 

What  if  I  suddenly  stumble,  and  push  the  door 
Open,  and  a  great  grey  dawn  swirls  over  my  feet, 

before 
I  can  draw  back! 

What  if  unwitting  I  set  the  door  of  eternity  wide 
And  am  swept  away  in  the  horrible  dawn,  am  gone 

down  the  tide 
Of  eternal  hereafter! 

[  45  ] 


SICKNESS 

iCatch  my  hands,  my  darling,  between  your  breasts. 
Take  them  away  from  their  venture,  before  fate 

wrests 
The  meaning  out  of  them. 


[46] 


EVERLASTING  FLOWERS 

WHO  do  you  think  stands  watching 
The  snow-tops  shining  rosy 

In  heaven,  now  that  the  darkness 
Takes  all  but  the  tallest  posy? 

Who  then  sees  the  two-winged 
Boat  down  there,  all  alone 

And  asleep  on  the  snow's  last  shadow, 
Like  a  moth  on  a  stone? 

The  olive-leaves,  light  as  gad-flies, 
Have  all  gone  dark,  gone  black. 

And  now  in  the  dark  my  soul  to  you 
Turns  back. 

To  you,  my  little  darling, 

To  you,  out  of  Italy. 
For  what  is  the  loveliness,  my  love, 

Save  you  have  it  with  me ! 

So,  there's  an  oxen  wagon 
Comes  darkly  into  sight: 
[  47  ] 


EVERLASTING  FLOWERS 

A  man  with  a  lantern,  swinging 
A  little  light. 

What  does  he  see,  my  darling 

Here  by  the  darkened  lake? 
Here,  in  the  sloping  shadow 

The  mountains  make? 

He  says  not  a  word,  but  passes, 

Staring  at  what  he  sees. 
What  ghost  of  us  both  do  you  think  he  saw 

Under  the  olive  trees  ? 

All  the  things  that  are  lovely  — 
The  things  you  never  knew  — 

I  wanted  to  gather  them  one  by  one 
And  bring  them  to  you. 

But  never  now,  my  darling, 

Can  I  gather  the  mountain-tips 

From  the  twilight  like  half-shut  lilies 
To  hold  to  your  lips. 

And  never  the  two-winged  vessel 
That  sleeps  below  on  the  lake 
[  48  ] 


EVERLASTING  FLOWERS 

Can  I  catch  like  a  moth  between  my  hands 
For  you  to  take. 

But  hush,  I  am  not  regretting : 

It  is  far  more  perfect  now. 
I'll  whisper  the  ghostly  truth  to  the  world 

And  tell  them  how 

I  know  you  here  in  the  darkness, 

How  you  sit  in  the  throne  of  my  eyes 

At  peace,  and  look  out  of  the  windows 
In  glad  surprise. 


[49] 


THE  NORTH  COUNTRY 

IN  another  country,  black  poplars  shake  themselves 
over  a  pond, 

And  rooks  and  the  rising  smoke-waves  scatter  and 
wheel  from  the  works  beyond ; 

The  air  is  dark  with  north  and  with  sulphur,  the  grass 
is  a  darker  green, 

And  people  darkly  invested  with  purple  move  pal- 
pable through  the  scene. 

Soundlessly  down  across  the  counties,  out  of  the 

resonant  gloom 
That  wraps  the  north  in  stupor  and  purple  travels  the 

deep,  slow  boom 
Of  the  man-life  north-imprisoned,  shut  in  the  hum 

of  the  purpled  steel 
As  it  spins  to  sleep  on  its  motion,  drugged  dense  in 

the  sleep  of  the  wheel. 

Out  of  the  sleep,  from  the  gloom  of  motion,  sound- 
lessly, somnambule 

Moans  and  booms  the  soul  of  a  people  imprisoned, 
asleep  in  the  rule 

[  50] 


THE  NORTH  COUNTRY 

Of  the  strong  machine  that  runs  mesmeric,  booming 

the  spell  of  its  word 
Upon  them  and  moving  them  helpless,  mechanic, 

their  will  to  its  will  deferred. 

Yet  all  the  while  comes  the  droning  inaudible,  out  of 

the  violet  air, 
The  moaning  of  sleep-bound  beings  in  travail  that 

toil  and  are  will-less  there 
In  the  spell-bound  north,  convulsive  now  with  a 

dream  near  morning,  strong 
With  violent  achings  heaving  to  burst  the  sleep  that 

is  now  not  long. 


BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH 

I 

AH,  stern,  cold  man, 
How  can  you  lie  so  relentless  hard 
While  I  wash  you  with  weeping  water ! 
Do  you  set  your  face  against  the  daughter 
Of  life  ?     Can  you  never  discard 
Your  curt  pride's  ban? 

You  masquerader ! 

How  can  you  shame  to  act  this  part 

Of  unswerving  indifference  to  me  ? 

You  want  at  last,  ah  me ! 

To  break  my  heart 

Evader ! 

You  know  your  mouth 
Was  always  sooner  to  soften 
Even  than  your  eyes. 
Now  shut  it  lies 
Relentless,  however  often 
I  kiss  it  in  drouth. 

[  52  ] 


BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH 

It  has  no  breath 

Nor  any  relaxing.     Where, 

Where  are  you,  what  have  you  done? 

What  is  this  mouth  of  stone  ? 

How  did  you  dare 

Take  cover  in  death ! 


II 

Once  you  could  see 

The  white  moon  show  like  a  breast  revealed 

By  the  slipping  shawl  of  stars. 

Could  see  the  small  stars  tremble 

As  the  heart  beneath  did  wield 

Systole,  diastole. 

All  the  lovely  macrocosm 
Was  woman  once  to  you, 
Bride  to  your  groom. 
No  tree  in  bloom 
But  it  leaned  you  a  new 
White  bosom. 

And  always  and  ever 
Soft  as  a  summering  tree 
[  53  ] 


BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH 

Unfolds  from  the  sky,  for  your  good, 
Unfolded  womanhood; 
Shedding  you  down  as  a  tree 
Sheds  its  flowers  on  a  river. 

*v 

I  saw  your  brows 

Set  like  rocks  beside  a  sea  of  gloom, 

And  I  shed  my  very  soul  down  into  your 

thought ; 

Like  flowers  I  fell,  to  be  caught 
On  the  comforted  pool,  like  bloom 
That  leaves  the  boughs. 

Ill 

Oh,  masquerader, 

With  a  hard  face  white-enamelled, 

What  are  you  now? 

Do  you  care  no  longer  how 

My  heart  is  trammelled, 

Evader? 

Is  this  you,  after  all, 
Metallic,  obdurate 
With  bowels  of  steel? 
Did  you  never  feel  ?  — 

c  54] 


BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH 

Cold,  insensate, 
Mechanical! 


Ah,  no !  —  you  multiform, 
You  that  I  loved,  you  wonderful, 
You  who  darkened  and  shone, 
You  were  many  men  in  one; 
But  never  this  null 
This  never-warm! 

Is  this  the  sum  of  you? 

Is  it  all  nought? 

Cold,  metal-cold? 

Are  you  all  told 

Here,  iron-wrought? 

Is  this  what's  become  of  you? 


[55] 


SEVEN  SEALS 

SINCE  this  is  the  last  night  I  keep  you  home, 
Come,  I  will  consecrate  you  for  the  journey. 

Rather  I  had  you  would  not  go.     Nay  come 
I  will  not  again  reproach  you.     Lie  back 
And  let  me  love  you  a  long  time  ere  you  go. 
For  you  are  sullen-hearted  still,  and  lack 
The  will  to  love  me.     But  even  so 
I  will  set  a  seal  upon  you  from  my  lip, 
Will  set  a  guard  of  honour  at  each  door, 
Seal  up  each  channel  out  of  which  might  slip 
Your  love  for  me. 

I  kiss  your  mouth.     Ah,  love, 
Could  I  but  seal  its  ruddy,  shining  spring 
Of  passion,  parch  it  up,  destroy,  remove 
Its  softly-stirring,  crimson  welling-up 
Of  kisses !     Oh,  help  me,  God !     Here  at  the  source 
I'd  lie  for  ever  drinking  and  drawing  in 
Your  fountains,  as  heaven  drinks  from  out  their 

course 
The  floods. 

[56] 


SEVEN  SEALS 

I  close  your  ears  with  kisses 
And  seal  your  nostrils;  and  round  your  neck  you'll 

wear  — 

Nay,  let  me  work  —  a  delicate  chain  of  kisses. 
Like  beads  they  go  around,  and  not  one  misses 
To  touch  its  fellow  on  either  side. 

And  there 

Full  mid-between  the  champaign  of  your  breast 
I  place  a  great  and  burning  seal  of  love 
Like  a  dark  rose,  a  mystery  of  rest 
On  the  slow  bubbling  of  your  rhythmic  heart. 

Nay,  I  persist,  and  very  faith  shall  keep 

You  integral  to  me.     Each  door,  each  mystic  port 

Of  egress  from  you  I  will  seal  and  steep 

In  perfect  chrism. 

Now  it  is  done.     The  mort 
Will  sound  in  heaven  before  it  is  undone. 

But  let  me  finish  what  I  have  begun 
And  shirt  you  now  invulnerable  in  the  mail 
Of  iron  kisses,  kisses  linked  like  steel. 
Put  greaves  upon  your  thighs  and  knees,  and  frail 
Webbing  of  steel  on  your  feet.     So  you  shall  feel 

[  57  ] 


SEVEN  SEALS 

Ensheathed  invulnerable  with  me,  with  seven 
Great  seals  upon  your  outgoings,  and  woven 
Chain  of  my  mystic  will  wrapped  perfectly 
Upon  you,  wrapped  in  indomitable  me. 


[  58] 


READING  A  LETTER 

SHE  sits  on  the  recreation  ground 

Under  an  oak  whose  yellow  buds  dot  the  pale  blue 

sky. 
The  young  grass  twinkles  in  the  wind,  and  the  sound 

Of  the  wind  in  the  knotted  buds  is  a  canopy. 

So  sitting  under  the  knotted  canopy 

Of  the  wind,  she  is  lifted  and  carried  away  as  in  a 

balloon 
Across  the  insensible  void,  till  she  stoops  to  see 

The  sandy  desert  beneath  her,  the  dreary  platoon. 

She  knows  the  waste  all  dry  beneath  her,  in  one  place 
Stirring  with  earth-coloured  life,  ever  turning  and 
stirring. 

But  never  the  motion  has  a  human  face 

'Nor  sound,  save  intermittent  machinery  whirring. 

And  so  again,  on  the  recreation  ground 

She  alights  a  stranger,  wondering,  unused  to  the 
scene ; 

[  59] 


READING  A  LETTER 

Suffering  at  sight  of  the  children  playing  around, 
Hurt  at  the  chalk-coloured  tulips,  and  the  evening- 
green. 


t  60  ] 


TWENTY  YEARS  AGO 

ROUND  the  house  were  lilacs  and  strawberries 
And  foal-foots  spangling  the  paths, 

And  far  away  on  the  sand-hills,  dewberries 
Caught  dust  from  the  sea's  long  swaths. 

Up  the  wolds  the  woods  were  walking, 

And  nuts  fell  out  of  their  hair. 
At  the  gate  the  nets  hung,  balking 

The  star-lit  rush  of  a  hare. 

In  the  autumn  fields  the  stubble 

Tinkled  the  music  of  gleaning. 
At  a  mother's  knees,  the  trouble 

Lost  all  its  meaning. 

Yea,  what  good  beginnings 

To  this  sad  end ! 
Have  we  had  our  innings? 
God  f orf end ! 


[  61  ] 


INTIME 

RETURNING,  I  find  her  just  the  same, 
At  just  the  same  old  delicate  game. 

Still  she  says:  "  Nay,  loose  no  flame 
To  lick  me  up  and  do  me  harm ! 
Be  all  yourself !  —  for  oh,  the  charm 
Of  your  heart  of  fire  in  which  I  look! 
Oh,  better  there  than  in  any  book 
Glow  and  enact  the  dramas  and  dreams 
I  love  for  ever !  —  there  it  seems 
,You  are  lovelier  than  life  itself,  till  desire 
Comes  licking  through  the  bars  of  your  lips 
And  over  my  face  the  stray  fire  slips, 
Leaving  a  burn  and  an  ugly  smart 
That  will  have  the  oil  of  illusion.     Oh,  heart 
Of  fire  and  beauty,  loose  no  more 
Your  reptile  flames  of  lust;  ah,  store 
Your  passion  in  the  basket  of  your  soul, 
Be  all  yourself,  one  bonny,  burning  coal 
That  stays  with  steady  joy  of  its  own  fire. 
But  do  not  seek  to  take  me  by  desire. 
[  62  ] 


INTIME 

Oh,  do  not  seek  to  thrust  on  me  your  fire ! 

For  in  the  firing  all  my  porcelain 

Of  flesh  does  crackle  and  shiver  and  break  in  pain, 

My  ivory  and  marble  black  with  stain, 

My  veil  of  sensitive  mystery  rent  in  twain, 

My  altars  sullied,  I,  bereft,  remain 

A  priestess  execrable,  taken  in  vain  — ." 

So  the  refrain 

Sings  itself  over,  and  so  the  game 
Re-starts  itself  wherein  I  am  kept 
Like  a  glowing  brazier  faintly  blue  of  flame 
So  that  the  delicate  love-adept 
-Can  warm  her  hands  and  invite  her  soul, 
Sprinkling  incense  and  salt  of  words 
And  kisses  pale,  and  sipping  the  toll 
Of  incense-smoke  that  rises  like  birds. 

Yet  I've  forgotten  in  playing  this  game, 

Things  I  have  known  that  shall  have  no  name ; 

Forgetting  the  place  from  which  I  came 

I  watch  her  ward  away  the  flame, 

Yet  warm  herself  at  the  fire  —  then  blame 

Me  that  I  flicker  in  the  basket; 

Me  that  I  glow  not  with  content 

[  63  ] 


INTIME 

To  have  my  substance  so  subtly  spent; 
Me  that  I  interrupt  her  game. 
I  ought  to  be  proud  that  she  should  ask  it 
Of  me  to  be  her  fire-opal  — . 

It  is  well 

Since  I  am  here  for  so  short  a  spell 
Not  to  interrupt  her?  —  Why  should  I 
Break  in  by  making  any  reply ! 


[64] 


TWO  WIVES 

I 

INTO  the  shadow-white  chamber  silts  the  white 
Flux  of  another  dawn.     The  wind  that  all  night 
Long  has  waited  restless,  suddenly  wafts 
A  whirl  like  snow  from  the  plum-trees  and  the  pear, 
Till  petals  heaped  between  the  window-shafts 
In  a  drift  die  there. 

A  nurse  in  white,  at  the  dawning,  flower-foamed  pane 
Draws  down  the  blinds,  whose  shadows  scarcely 

stain 

The  white  rugs  on  the  floor,  nor  the  silent  bed 
That  rides  the  room  like  a  frozen  berg,  its  crest 
Finally  ridged  with  the  austere  line  of  the  dead 
Stretched  out  at  rest. 

Less  than  a  year  the  fourfold  feet  had  pressed 
The  peaceful  floor,  when  fell  the  sword  on  their  rest. 
Yet  soon,  too  soon,  she  had  him  home  again 
With  wounds  between  then,  and  suffering  like  a  guest 
That  will  not  go.     Now  suddenly  going,  the  pain 
Leaves  an  empty  breast. 
[  65  ] 


TWO  WIVES 
II 

A  tall  woman,  with  her  long  white  gown  aflow 
As  she  strode  her  limbs  amongst  it,  once  more 
She  hastened  towards  the  room.     Did  she  know 
As  she  listened  in  silence  outside  the  silent  door? 
Entering,  she  saw  him  in  outline,  raised  on  a  pyre 
Awaiting  the  fire. 

Upraised  on  the  bed,  with  feet  erect  as  a  bow, 
Like  the  prow  of  a  boat,  his  head  laid  back  like  the 

stern 

Of  a  ship  that  stands  in  a  shadowy  sea  of  snow 
With  frozen  rigging,  she  saw  him ;  she  drooped  like 

a  fern 
Refolding,  she  slipped  to  the  floor  as  a  ghost-white 

peony  slips 

When  the  thread  clips. 

Soft  she  lay  as  a  shed  flower  fallen,  nor  heard 
The  ominous  entry,  nor  saw  the  other  love, 
The  dark,  the  grave-eyed  mistress  who  thus  dared 
At  such  an  hour  to  lay  her  claim,  above 
A  stricken  wife,  so  sunk  in  oblivion,  bowed 
With  misery,  no  more  proud. 

[66  ] 


TWO  WIVES 

III 

The  stranger's  hair  was  shorn  like  a  lad's  dark  poll 
And  pale  her  ivory  face :  her  eyes  would  fail 
In  silence  when  she  looked:  for  all  the  whole 
Darkness  of  failure  was  in  them,  without  avail. 
Dark  in  indomitable  failure,  she  who  had  lost 
Now  claimed  the  host. 

She  softly  passed  the  sorrowful  flower  shed 
In  blonde  and  white  on  the  floor,  nor  even  turned 
Her  head  aside,  but  straight  towards  the  bed 
Moved  with  slow  feet,  and  her  eyes'  flame  steadily 

burned. 

She  looked  at  him  as  he  lay  with  banded  cheek, 
And  she  started  to  speak 

Softly:  "  I  knew  it  would  come  to  this,"  she  said. 
"  I  knew  that  some  day,  soon,  I  should  find  you  thus. 
So  I  did  not  fight  you.     You  went  your  way  instead 
Of  coming  mine  —  and  of  the  two  of  us 
I  died  the  first,  I,  in  the  after-life 
Am  now  your  wife. 

IV 

'Twas  I  whose  fingers  did  draw  up  the  young 
Plant  of  your  body :  to  me  you  looked  e'er  sprung 

[  67  ] 


TWO  WIVES 

The  secret  of  the  moon  within  your  eyes ! 
My  mouth  you  met  before  your  fine  red  mouth 
Was  set  to  song  —  and  never  your  song  denies 
My  love,  till  you  went  south. 

'Twas  I  who  placed  the  bloom  of  manhood  on 
Your  youthful  smoothness :  I  fleeced  where  fleece 

was  none. 

Your  fervent  limbs  with  flickers  and  tendrils  of  new 
Knowledge;  I  set  your  heart  to  its  stronger  beat; 
I  put  my  strength  upon  you,  and  I  threw 
My  life  at  your  feet. 

"  But  I  whom  the  years  had  reared  to  be  your  bride, 
Who  for  years  was  sun  for  your  shivering,  shade  for 

your  sweat, 
Who  for  one  strange  year  was  as  a  bride  to  you  — 

you  set  me  aside 
With  all  the  old,  sweet  things  of  our  youth ;  —  and 

never  yet 

Have  I  ceased  to  grieve  that  I  was  not  great  enough 
To  defeat  your  baser  stuff. 

V 

"  But  you  are  given  back  again  to  me 
Who  have  kept  intact  for  you  your  virginity. 

t  68  J 


TWO  WIVES 

Who  for  the  rest  of  life  walk  out  of  care, 
Indifferent  here  of  myself,  since  I  am  gone 
Where  you  are  gone,  and  you  and  I  out  there 
Walk  now  as  one. 

'*  Your  widow  am  I,  and  dnly  I.     I  dream 
God  bows  his  head  and  grants  me  this  supreme 
Pure  look  of  your  last  dead  face,  whence  now  is  gone 
The  mobility,  the  panther's  gamboling, 
And  all  your  being  is  given  to  me,  so  none 
Can  mock  my  struggling. 

"  And  now  at  last  I  kiss  your  perfect  face, 
Perfecting  now  our  unfinished,  first  embrace. 
Your  young  hushed  look  that  then  saw  God  ablaze 
In  every  bush,  is  given  you  back,  and  we 
Are  met  at  length  to  finish  our  rest  of  days 
In  a  unity." 


[69] 


HEIMWEH 

FAR-OFF  the  lily-statues  stand  white-ranked  in  the 

garden  at  home. 
Would  God  they  were  shattered  quickly,  the  cattle 

would  tread  them  out  in  the  loam. 
I  wish  the  elder  trees  in  flower  could  suddenly  heave, 

and  burst 
The  walls  of  the  house,  and  nettles  puff  out  from  the 

hearth  at  which  I  was  nursed. 

It  stands  so  still  in  the  hush  composed  of  trees  and 
inviolate  peace, 

The  home  of  my  fathers,  the  place  that  is  mine,  my 
fate  and  my  old  increase. 

And  now  that  the  skies  are  falling,  the  world  is  spout- 
ing in  fountains  of  dirt, 

I  would  give  my  soul  for  the  homestead  to  fall  with 
me,  go  with  me,  both  in  one  hurt. 


[  70] 


DEBACLE 

THE  trees  in  trouble  because  of  autumn, 
And  scarlet  berries  falling  from  the  bush, 

And  all  the  myriad  houseless  seeds 

Loosing  hold  in  the  wind's  insistent  push 

Moan  softly  with  autumnal  parturition, 
Poor,  obscure  fruits  extruded  out  of  light 

Into  the  world  of  shadow,  carried  down 
Between  the  bitter  knees  of  the  after-night. 

Bushed  in  an  uncouth  ardour,  coiled  at  core 
With  a  knot  of  life  that  only  bliss  can  unravel, 

Fall  all  the  fruits  most  bitterly  into  earth 
Bitterly  into  corrosion  bitterly  travel. 

What  is  it  internecine  that  is  locked, 
By  very  fierceness  into  a  quiescence 

Within  the  rage  ?     We  shall  not  know  till  it  burst 
Out  of  corrosion  into  new  florescence. 

Nay,  but  how  tortured  is  the  frightful  seed 
The  spark  intense  within  it,  all  without 
[  7i  ] 


DEBACLE 

Mordant  corrosion  gnashing  and  champing  hard 
For  ruin  on  the  naked  small  redoubt. 

Bitter,  to  fold  the  issue,  and  make  no  sally; 

To  have  the  mystery,  but  not  go  forth; 
To  bear,  but  retaliate  nothing,  given  to  save 

The  spark  in  storms  of  corrosion,  as  seeds  from 
the  north. 

The  sharper,  more  horrid  the  pressure,  the  harder 
the  heart 

That  saves  the  blue  grain  of  eternal  fire 
Within  its  quick,  committed  to  hold  and  wait  - 

And  suffer  unheeding,  only  forbidden  to  expire. 


[72] 


NARCISSUS 

WHERE  the  minnows  trace 

A  glinting  web  quick  hid  in  the  gloom  of  the  brook, 

When  I  think  of  the  place 

And  remember  the  small  lad  lying  intent  to  look 

Through  the  shadowy  face 

At  the  little  fish  thread-threading  the  watery  nook  — 

It  seems  to  me 

The  woman  you  are  should  be  nixie,  there  is  a  pool 
Where  we  ought  to  be. 
You  undine-clear  and  pearly,  soullessly  cool 
And  waterly 

The  pool  for  my  limbs  to  fathom,  my  souPs  last 
school. 

Narcissus 

Ventured  so  long  ago  in  the  deeps  of  reflection. 
Illyssus 

Broke  the  bounds  and  beyond!  —  Dim  recollection 
Of  fishes 

Soundlessly  moving  in  heaven's  other  direction ! 

[  73  ] 


NARCISSUS 
Be 

Undine  towards  the  waters,  moving  back; 
For  me 

A  pool !     Put  off  the  soul  you've  got,  oh  lack 
Your  human  self  immortal ;  take  the  watery  track. 


[74] 


AUTUMN  SUNSHINE 

THE  sun  sets  out  the  autumn  crocuses 
And  fills  them  up  a  pouring  measure 
Of  death^producing  wine,  till  treasure 

Runs  waste  down  their  chalices. 

All,  all  Persephone's  pale  cups  of  mould 

Are  on  the  board,  are  over-filled; 

The  portion  to  the  gods  is  spilled; 
Now,  mortals  all,  take  hold! 

The  rime  is  now,  the  wine-cup  full  and  full 
Of  lambent  heaven,  a  pledging-cup ; 
Let  now  all  mortal  men  take  up 

The  drink,  and  a  long,  strong  pull. 

Out  of  the  hell-queen's  cup,  the  heaven's  pale  wine 
Drink  then,  invisible  heroes,  drink. 
Lips  to  the  vessels,  never  shrink, 

Throats  to  the  heavens  incline. 

And  take  within  the  wine  the  god's  great  oath 
By  heaven  and  earth  and  hellish  stream 

[  75  ] 


AUTUMN  SUNSHINE 

To  break  this  sick  and  nauseous  dream 
We  writhe  and  lust  in,  both. 

Swear,  in  the  pale  wine  poured  from  the  cups  of  the 
queen 

Of  hell,  to  wake  and  be  free 

From  this  nightmare  we  writhe  in, 
Break  out  of  this  foul  has-been. 


[  76] 


ON  THAT  DAY 

ON  that  day 

I  shall  put  roses  on  roses,  and  cover  your  grave 
With  multitude  of  white  roses:  and  since  you  were 

brave 

One  bright  red  ray. 
i 

So  people,  passing  under 
The  ash-trees  of  the  valley-road,  will  raise 
Their  eyes  and  look  at  the  grave  on  the  hill,  in 
wonder, 

Wondering  mount,  and  put  the  flowers  asunder 

To  see  whose  praise 

Is  blazoned  here  so  white  and  so  bloodily  red. 
Then  they  will  say:  "  'Tis  long  since  she  is  dead, 

Who  has  remembered  her  after  many  days?  " 

And  standing  there 

They  will  consider  how  you  went  your  ways 
Unnoticed  among  them,  a  still  queen  lost  in  the  maze 

Of  this  earthly  affair. 

[77] 


ON  THAT  DAY 

A  queen,  they'll  say, 
Has  slept  unnoticed  on  a  forgotten  hill. 
Sleeps  on  unknown,  unnoticed  there,  until 

Dawns  my  insurgent  day. 


THE  END. 


[  78] 


